


MACUSA’s Director of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Him

by the_writer



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, I try to keep it as accurate as possible, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writer/pseuds/the_writer
Summary: With a growing number of unsolved cases involving the rise of illegal magical creatures in America, Graves is given a choice: either find another job, or find a director worthy of leading MACUSA’s new Department of Magical Creatures. Unfortunately, due to the ban of magical creatures in the US, anyone worthy of the title is either criminal or deceased or is out of the country – which leads Graves to one Newt Scamander.  Sadly for him though, Newt is one of the most untrackable, untraceable, and untalkative person Graves has ever seen.





	1. Failure

“Thirteen cases with escaping evidence, eight cases with unnecessary causalities, five cases where the statue of secrecy was broken due to No-Maj exposure to the content of said cases, three cases remaining unsolved due to lack of information, and two cases with the jury still indecisive due to _your_ Auror’s misconduct during fieldwork. What is your response, Mr. Graves?”

President Picquery’s words echoes across the chamber, the meeting room dim and cold as her glare sweeps over the sparse crowd, her curt words a foreboding promise to any who dared to defy her. The room was filled with only the directors and second in commands of every department, a total of twenty-six members desperately trying to fill the space meant for hundreds. Her posture was stiff and regal, face calm and unyielding as her words continued to ring out over the scattered crowd, bouncing off the walls as her voice reverberated around the room.

Percival Graves stood from his seat, his second in command, Josephine Hudson, shifting tensely in her seat as the members of the meeting turned their sights to him. It was a rarity for Graves to be brought to attention, his department the shining glory of MACUSA, and since his promotion to Director, there had yet to be a scandal or incident to earn his department a single smudge to its record. At least, until a few months prior, when every criminal from Seattle to New York had seemed to find the wealth held in the magical beast trade. The rise of wizards and squibs buying and selling creatures for profit, ingredients for the dark arts, breeding, potions, and the many healing properties of the beasts’ insides drew the rich and poor alike to the lucrative business. It was a slew of cruel and inhumane cases, some of the crime scenes leaving a foul taste in Graves’s mouth. The heightened crime in one of America’s busiest cities, matched with MACUSA left in the dark on all things relating to magical creatures, leading to Picquery looking murderous at the mere mention of a murtlap.

“My senior Aurors are working around the clock to close these cases, but due to the absent knowledge of these beasts and their…habits, my men and I are working with what we can.” Graves concludes, his pride refusing to let him take the full brunt of the blame. 

But, what he said was the truth – just last week Hudson herself had a nasty run in with a Jarvey, the sly burrowing beast giving Hudson a harsh bite on her ankle and then going on to extensively insulting her mother. Yesterday, one of his Aurors almost had his arm ripped off by an angry Clabbert, and the day before that, Goldstein had almost been run over by a ten foot tall Nogtail. 

During these times, he could not blame his employees for not following procedure for almost being run over by a very large pig-looking beast or being mauled by a glowing bald monkey. Graves could readily admit that this department was being overwhelmed by the growing obscurity of the situations, which much was obvious due to the extensive reports which had seemed to always find a way to his inbox. Despite this, Graves knew his Aurors were the best in North America as he had handpicked them himself. His senior employees worked hard and didn’t complain about the policies or rules. They understood the importance of their job, and did the best they could with the tools provided.  
“Are you saying that none of this is your fault?” Picquery dares; spine straight and regal as she looked down at him from her perch on her golden chair.

Before Graves could reply, his back straight and lips parted when a scoff from the other side of the room draws all attention away from him, all eyes settling to a weasel-like man sitting closest to the door, a vaguely familiar smirk known to many of the Department Heads. Mr. Jerry Jones was not a well-known man, but was something akin to a phenomenon due to his surprising and sudden promotion to becoming the director of the Magical Cleaning Department last month. Jones’s beady eyes rose from the floor, and settles upon the broad shoulders of Graves. 

“Anything to add, Mr. Jones?” President Picquery growls, a silent threat which Graves had no doubt she would follow through with.

Graves had seen the same gaze many times during his schooling, and despite being from different houses and different class years, Picquery was something akin to an urban legend within Ilvermorny. Even back then, she had been well known for being an untouchable beauty, a woman who strode with all the power a teenager could have while wearing a knee-length plaid skirt and button up blouse. She had been a student who was rarely seen outside of the classroom, one who disappeared within the tall towering shelves of the library and only left to seek retribution on some poor sod who had managed to ignite the fury of Seraphina.

Jones, however, unlike many of the room’s inhabitants, had not attended Ilvermorny with Picquery. At her words, the man took them as permission to speak, rather than to cower, and steps forward from the dark shroud of the doorway. Hudson leans forward in her seat beside Graves, a predatory glint in her eye as she watches the growing spectacle.

“I just find it hard to believe, is all. How can some of the best Aurors in America be foiled by a handful of animals? Are your men,” Hudson growls, her right hand twitching towards her wand, “so inept that they can be outsmarted by a couple of beasts?” 

“May I, Sir?” Hudson mutters, wand now in hand as she leans forward further, legs tense and ready to lunge at the rodent-like man smirking down at them. The last thing Graves needs was another report, let alone one on why his second in command had decided to hex one of her superiors.

Graves waves his hand in dismissal, just as Picquery turns her attention back to him, Hudson relaxing back into her seat as she even goes as far as to offer a smile to the regal woman. Picquery simply ignores the seated woman, turning to Graves with a glint of hidden mirth in her golden eyes. 

“And your response to this, Mr. Graves?” Picquery queries, a small upwards tilt of her lips seen in the corner of his eye as Graves starts. 

“I believe if Mr. Jones believes he is better suited to classify and contain the Yeti wandering the sewers in Chinatown than cleaning up after the paper mice downstairs; then he is free to take Mrs. Goodwin’s place.” Graves replies coolly, ignoring the stuttering man. 

“’Ey now! I wasn’t offerin’ my services-“Jones protested. 

Picquery set her sights on the man below her, “Mr. Jones, if you have enough time to waste time during this meeting then it must mean you have enough time to help protect the Statue of Secrecy. Should I remind you that because of these unsolved cases that our Obliviators are working nonstop to keep the peace between No-Maj and Wizard kind. We are in a time of tension; one misstep, and everything falls apart.”

If it was possible, the room grows colder. Graves knew Picquery spoke the truth, the New Salemers’ crowds grew larger and larger with every strange occurrence, magical or not. Unrest silently flourished like a disease, as Grindelwald’s forces advanced with every passing day over in Europe, the man’s words reaching even the ears of wizards in America. With a wave of her hand, the President dismissed them, tension creasing her brow as she kept her chin level. Graves stayed standing, keeping his place as the departments filed out with hushed whispers. Hudson gave him a nod as she left as well, her blond hair never straying from her tight bun as she closed the oak doors behind herself. 

“Percival.” Picquery started, eyes never straying from the closed door.

“Seraphina.” 

“I want these cases solved, Percival. No exceptions.” Picquery spoke, her voice soft in the empty room. It was a haunting sound, the feeling of an impossible task being placed on Graves’s shoulders as he stood still.

“Have I ever failed you, Sera.” Graves stated. 

He was a Graves, and failure had never been in his vocabulary. He steps down from his spot next to her, crossing the room with echoing steps as he reached for the door. 

“You fail me now, Graves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will try my best to update every Saturday on a weekly basis, but with college, some updates may be late. I will try to give a date on when the next chapter will be up.
> 
> Next update: January 12th
> 
> Clabbert: A constant grinning fur-less monkey native to southern North America, its forehead tending to glow red when it senses danger.  
>  Jarvey: An overgrown ferret-looking creature which burrows underground for food, and likes to insult people as a form of communication.  
>  Nogtail: A demon found in rural parts of America and Europe, which looks like a stunned piglet. The longer a Nogtail is unnoticed or ignored, the larger it grows. It tends to be extremely fast and difficult to catch.


	2. To Achieve the Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update!

The elevator was one of MACUSA’s newest additions to the building, and with over one hundred floors, only two elevators were not nearly enough to keep up with the heavy flow of employees and Aurors constantly coming and going, dashing floor to floor. The MACUSA was a building often times described as “larger than life” and in many ways, it was. To Graves, and many other Aurors, MACUSA stood for everything America and its magic has been, and will be. It stood for the law and opportunity. 

Graves waits for an elevator patiently, Hudson standing at his side as she stands stiff in her pressed suit. “If you want, Sir, I can always take the liberty of jinxing Mr. Jones during his lunch break” Hudson tells him primly, hand folded behind her back, “It would be no hassle Sir. I’ll even do it off the clock, free of charge.”

The elevator sets down in front of them, Red giving Graves a nod as he stepped in, Hudson joining him quickly as he spoke, “While you do make a compelling argument Hudson, I’ll have to decline the offer, as we have more than enough paperwork to already take care of.”

He tells Red which floor he needs and steps out onto the landing when they arrive, the scurry of Aurors rushing to and from, the drilling sound of rattling crates and cages of angry creatures lining the perimeter of the room while paperwork was busy being sorted, contracts signed, letters answered, reports filled, evidence analyzed, and files being exchanged as papers and books flew through the air. Quills sped over head as the rare international owl or eagle would fly overhead, American carrier pigeons dodging the larger fowls as letters and packages were delivered.

Graves strides forward, Hudson parting from his side to head for her own office, his footsteps echoing across the room as flying papers and Aurors parted for him, “Goldstein, with me.” He barks, the tense woman rushing from her desk to follow.

Her short brown hair was frazzled and a stray Fwooper feather was stubbornly stuck within her curls, dark bags lurked beneath her brown eyes and her skin looked unnervingly pale. She was tired, just like the rest of them, but Graves was impressed as she matched him stride for stride, her step never faltering despite her exhaustion. They enter his office and he sets to work, organizing files and picking up a pen to start his futile attempt of getting ahead of his paperwork. 

“Sir?” Goldstein wavers, fingers fumbling with the hem of her blouse. 

He stalks to his desk, shuffling papers about as he pulled the necessary files, “Report.”

Goldstein stutters, floundering in her place, “Well, um, so far we are trying to find a place which will take the animals, but sadly most of the animals aren’t native to North America, and we are having troubles contacting the other ministries. The British Ministry of Magic is giving no reply whatsoever, as an automated report came in this morning informing us that they are currently busy dealing with Grindelwald. France is busy with their own illegal trade and Uganda is trying their best to keep in contact, but it takes several days for their eagles to reach us.” 

“What of the Sycamore case?” Graves asks; head down as he read through another letter from the Office of Magical Transportation and Travel – someone causing a stir with a suitcase full of Billywigs and an enchanted bus carrying cases of dragon eggs. 

“…I’m afraid the jury is still indecisive as we still do not have much evidence against Mrs. Sycamore. We all know she is guilty, but with many of the creatures being unaccounted for, and the witness still refuses to give a statement pertaining the case.”

“Fantastic.” Graves clips. 

Graves dismisses the woman with a wave of his hand, Goldstein looking relieved as she flees the scene. He runs a hand over his haggard face as he slouches in his chair, a thing too stiff and too rigid for such an act as he picks through the papers; a flurry of files to be analyzed, reports to be added, contracts to sign, evidence to redeem and sort, accounts to verify. It was mess Graves wished he would never have to see. 

It’s exactly seven days after the meeting of directors when Picquery calls Graves to her office. Within that one week, Graves had only managed to close three of the cases, finally able to track and contain the Yeti terrorizing the sewer system, arrested the Jarvey breeders in downtown and had finally been able to crack Mrs. Sycamore with a full confession and the end of a frankly impressive smuggling operation between the U.S. and Canadian borders. Unfortunately, during the closing of those three cases, five more had come to light and Graves had only seen his bed for a total of twelve hours within the week. The growing number of captured animals in MACUSA had spilled from the available evidence lockers to the stairwells and his department’s lobby and offices. It was safe to say each of his Aurors had at least one cage of angry Doxies next to their typewriters and two dragon eggs under each desk. 

Thankfully, his office had been spared from becoming infested with animals, but rather towers of paperwork. His inbox was overflowing and desk no longer its usual pristine self, as it had somehow became more paper and ink than wood. Leaving his office, he stepped around Goodwin and Goldstein, both seeming to be panicking near the entrance to the stairwell, which Graves left for them to deal with. He had a feeling he would rather not know what was behind door number one. 

Door number two was probably worse, as Graves made to enter the bleached office of President Picquery. Graves had barely taken a step into Picquery’s spotless office before she had dropped one of the most ill-timed plots she could have thought of within her reign. 

“I plan to procure a new department within MACUSA,” Picquery greeted, not looking up from the papers in her hand as Graves settles to stand in front of her behemoth of a desk.  
Graves stands still, the urge to gape overwhelming as he tightens his jaw to keep it from dropping, “Excuse me, Ma’am?” Graves grunts, her words clinging to him like a spiteful leech. 

“A new department - Department of Magical Creatures, to be exact.” Her gaze lifting to her guest, a humorless smile playing upon her lips.

Graves cleared his throat, wondering if bringing up the past would be the proper thing to do before Picquery solidified the idea. “Sera, if you don’t remember, the MACUSA has already had a department for beasts. The Body for the Protection of Magical Species was disbanded for a reason. The head of BPMS attacked a Sasquatch in western Washington, leading to the Great Sasquatch Rebellion of 1892. Part of the treaty was that the BPMS was to be disbanded, and the head, Ms. Kneedander, to have her Magizoology license revoked. Creating a new department without the vote of the Council would be ill advised.”

Picquery smiled, “Don’t worry, Mr. Graves. I’m already in the process of taking care of such measures,” Graves gritted his teeth, “currently our goal is to keep the peace between the No-Maj population and our society. In order to do so, expanding MACUSA will beneficial to both our current…situation, and in the long run.” Picquery paused, her eyes narrowing as she watched the man in front of her, “You have been my Director of Magical Security and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for many years, Graves. I trust you to find not only employees for this new department, but also a suitable director. I don’t care what you have to do to find them; I want these cases closed, Percival.”

It was a means to an end, Graves thought. Picquery was going to stop at nothing to close his growing pile of cases, and with elections right around the corner, she had the right to be worried. But Graves knew that when push came to shove, Picquery would be heartless of the eradication of any obstacle which stood in her path. She had been chosen by the Horned Serpent, and while they were known for being scholars, a snake was still a snake.

“The founding of the department may not be instant, Picquery. My Aurors and I-“ Graves started.

“I want the department, and all of the cases closed by the end of the month, Percival.” She commanded, her eyes narrowing as Graves froze. 

It was Tuesday the eighth, leaving him with only twenty-two days to complete the impossible. Even if his Aurors were to close a case a day they still wouldn’t make it. He had a total of twelve senior Aurors, all of them already worked to the bone and exhausted.

“You want me to staff an entire department, find someone worthy of becoming Director of said department, close over thirty cases, and all within twenty-two days?” Graves seethes.

“That is correct.” Picquery gives, her gaze unforgiving, “You have a well sought after job, _Percy_. It would be a shame to pass the torch to another, more capable Auror.”

Graves bit his tongue at the comment, hands clasping behind his back, fingers clenching into harsh fists as his magic sparked under his nails. He gives Picquery a nod and spins on his heel, storming out of the room with a flourish of his coattails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Thank you for all of the support and kudos! 
> 
> Next update: January 19th!


	3. The Start of it All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another late update, but its a longer chapter this time! Thank you for reading!

The letter Graves had sent to Theseus Scamander was brief and cordial, at least he had hoped at the time. 

Percival Graves had hastily scribbled the note in the rising elevator after his meeting with Picquery, attached it to the leg of his messenger pigeon the minute he had entered his office, and had fallen asleep at his desk for the third time that week. By the time he had woken up an hour later, Graves could honestly say he had no recollection of even sending a letter in first place. Had it not been for the ink staining his hands and his missing carrier, Graves wouldn’t have thought anything to be amiss. 

Running a hand over his face, he sighs, straightening his tie as he busies himself with work, scolding himself for sleeping on the job. He hadn’t meant to do it, but time had caught up with him and after Picquery’s impromptu meeting in her office, his body had decided to shut down before the man had been able to send out a notice of a much needed Auror meeting. 

A quick wave of his hand lifts the ink from his skin as his other hand writes out a stack of notes to his available senior Aurors to convene at the closest meeting room. After sending out the letters, Graves pauses.

The stacks of neatly piled paperwork towered over him, and for a brief moment, Graves sat wondering how it had even gotten so high, or where it originated from in the first place. Never before in his career had things gotten out of hand this terribly. In fact, the only thing which had ever gotten a smudge to his department’s record was the day Picquery had decided on the wizarding ban on alcohol, where both wizards and some MACUSA Aurors had rioted, and in the process of calming the raging crowd, a miss-cast spell had set the Magical Threat Exposure clock on fire, causing damage to the main stairwell below the device.

Graves shakes himself from his thoughts and stood from his seat, straightening his waistcoat and tie, brushing off any wrinkles and heading through his door without preamble.

The conference room he had chosen was one of the smallest in MACUSA, and in turn, was one of the few rooms on his department’s floor which wasn’t filled to the brim with various magical creatures. There were no windows and only one door, and in the corner were foldable wooden chairs stacked high. In the center was a small table, small enough to be placed in front of perhaps a bakery or café, to comfortably seat one, maybe two people, but never seven. 

When he enters the small conference room, Graves sees his Aurors setting up the room. Reyes pulling chairs forward around the small circular table and Goodwin ferrying the sparse few cages and crates out of the room and into the hall. Goldstein stood trying to fit her stack of papers on the table, the table itself perhaps able to only fit a chess board atop of it on a good day. Hudson strolled into the room with a wide grin, eyes setting on Abernathy with glee as she took her spot. 

“Is this about last week’s meeting?” Hudson asks, draping her trench coat on the back of her seat before sitting down, “Or the fact Abernathy has a huge crush on Queenie Goldstein?”

“Excuse me?” Tina Goldstein stills, eyes flashing as her glare meets the man. 

“I can explain-“ Abernathy tries. 

“To the matter at hand,” Graves greets, drawing everyone to their respective spots around the table, “Last week Picquery held a meeting with all of MACUSA’s directors and deputies. Earlier today, Picquery assigned us a task.” Graves pauses, ignoring the way his chest tightens uncomfortably, “By the end of the month, we need to close all active cases in order to calm both No-Maj and wizarding society. In accompanying that, we need to staff a new department Picquery wants to open.”

“Which department?” Hudson perks up with interest.

Goldstein’s eyes narrow, her past in the Major Investigations Department making her wary of the exchange, “Mr. Graves sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what will happen if we do not meet the deadline?” 

“That is not of your concern, Goldstein,” Graves confronts, “all that you need to know is that by May first, all active cases must be closed and the Department of Magical Creatures must be ready for MACUSA’s use.”

“That’s not possible” Abernathy exclaims, “There are only twelve of us, and thirty-two active cases. Add the act of finding someone worthy of director and to employ the department, it would be impossible. These kinds of things take time, paperwork, meetings, and renovations. The list goes on and on!”

“Perhaps we can cut our losses,” Goodwin adds, “Talk to Picquery. Ask her to ease up.”

“Madam President only cares about one thing: keeping the peace. The New Salemers, these cases, the rise of illegal creatures, Grindelwald spreading his influence – everything which threatens the peace MACUSA has fought for is on the cusp of going up in flames.” Hudson says, fingers fiddling with her cuff link, “It doesn’t help that elections are coming up, and if the public sees that she can’t keep wizards safe, it’ll be over for her.”

“It doesn’t mean she can take it out on us though.” Goldstein exasperates.

“It doesn’t matter now, the task is set. The only thing we can do now is move forward.” Graves spoke, voice calm and stern. 

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s you, Director Graves, who takes the fall.” Abernathy says.

The room falls silent, Hudson shifting in her seat uncomfortably as Abernathy fiddles with his tie. The man’s prediction may have been close to the truth, but Graves had still found no need to inform his Aurors of his impending unemployment. He knew his department did not favor him due to his strict by-the-book nature, but he was also a Graves. A Graves never failed, so why inform anyone of his deadline when he would find a way to meet it. 

Goldstein breaks the silence, fingers flipping through the stack of papers set before her, “Maybe not completely…” She mutters, deft hands searching quickly as her eyes roams the pages, discarded pages becoming a haphazard stack in the center of the small table. “Here.” 

She pulls a single sheet out of her mess, the paper slightly wrinkled and coffee stained, but still clear and legible, and places it before the group. At the top of the page is the insignia of the Auror training program of the MACUSA, tight-knit font staring back at them as scribbled notes dotted the margins of the short letter.

“What exactly are we looking at, Goldstein?” Graves questions, wanting the woman to elaborate on her findings.

“Statistic report given to MACUSA’s Aurors-in-training.” Goldstein confirms, “I kept mine on hand if something ever came up. It states that on average, twenty-seven Aurors or employed wizards are in each department, each department must be led by one director. While there is no maximum cut off for a department, the minimum requirement is three active witches or wizards to run a functional department.”

“We need to find a total of four people then.” Graves murmurs, lips pursing as he stares down at the paper, “A slightly smaller task in the grand scheme.”

“Can we pull people from other departments?” Goldstein thinks aloud, pulling the paper closer for a better look. 

Hudson nods, “I don’t see why not. I’ll start looking through MACUSA’s employee records tonight for anyone which a history in magical beasts.”

“I’ll leave that in your hands, Hudson.” Graves confirms, “Picquery will do anything to restore the peace. We can deal with the paperwork after things have settled; do whatever you must to find people fit for the job.” 

Hudson stands, buttoning her waistcoat with a smile, “Of course, Sir.” She gathers her trench coat in her arms and pushes in her chair. “I’ll return to our Aurors still out in the field, provide some extra support and try to get a few cases wrapped up if that’s alright Mr. Graves, sir?”

Graves waves her off with a flourish of a hand, “Dismissed, Hudson. Smith, Reyes – I want you two here try to make some headway on some of the paperwork, try to reach out to the Ministry to get these beasts back to their proper country. Keep communications strong with Uganda and try to close a few cases. Goodwin, try to get any further information from the wizards we have in the cells, Mrs. Sycamore specifically.” 

The five Aurors leave with a nod, leaving the room empty and cold. A mess of papers still lay in a heap across the table, lost and forgotten as Abernathy and Goldstein hovers quietly. 

“And what of us, sir?” Goldstein questions, shoulders stiff as her eyes flicker to the files strewn about.

Graves shifts on his feet, fingers moving to fiddle with his cuff links, “Abernathy, go gather the files for Hudson. If you have any trouble getting clearance, tell them to come to my office and I’ll deal with it personally.” The man nods and hurries out, carefully hiding his disdain as he heads for the archives.

Goldstein shuffles quietly, “Anything else, sir?” 

Graves nods, setting to work on gathering up the papers on the table, “Come with me, Goldstein. You used be in the Major Investigations Department, correct?”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Goldstein agrees. 

Graves nods as he hands the stack back to the brunette, “Perfect.” He states, pushing in his chair as he picks up his coat and scarf, waving for her to follow as he walks through the halls, the high ceilings and narrow walls seeming far too small for any enchanted building. 

He enters his office quickly, watching the woman from the corner of his eye as she tarries by the door, eventually settling on closing the door behind her as Graves returns to his desk, a single piece of paper standing out amongst the piles, his sleeping messenger pigeon making a nest in a pile of forms. The new letter was worn and thin, speckled with mud and water warped, making it difficult to unfold and the ink barely legible, but still distinct enough for Graves to be able to read. 

_Percy, it’s nice to hear from you again. If you’re looking for those interested in magical beasts, you’re most likely looking in the wrong place. I know a few magizoologists myself, and they tend to dislike all things paperwork. Try looking for those either unregistered or uncertified. A magizoologist who sits at a desk all day will never be as good as someone travels and handles these creatures every day. I remember a few good ones back in the war, ones not afraid to tangle with creatures far deadlier than a dragon. Try the war records, perhaps you will find a lead or two there. After things settle down, perhaps you could send a few of your men over here to help with our search for Grindelwald. We can work details after you handle the ‘Grave’ situation. –Theseus Scamander_

“Mr. Graves, sir?” Goldstein pondered; bring the man’s gaze back to her. 

“Do you have any evening plans for tonight, Ms. Goldstein?” Graves answered, standing from his chair, straightening his tie with one hand while the other held the letter.

“Excuse me, sir?” Goldstein blurted, shock painting her features as she gaped at the man, a pink tint rising to her cheeks. 

“No? Perfect. I just received a lead for our search for our new director.” Graves stated, eyes crinkling slightly at the startled expression the tall woman bore, “I’m glad you could join me, Ms. Goldstein. It seems we are in for long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that happy about how this chapter turned out, but alas, I can’t seem to make it any better at the moment. Sorry again for the late update! School and work decided to kick my butt, but thankfully chapter four is already almost done! Thank you guys so much for the support!!
> 
> Next update: January 26th!


	4. Search for the Director

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search begins for a suitable candidate, and due to Theseus's involvement, Graves questions the idea of Newton Scamander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed exploring this chapter, but a bit of the timeline is a bit skewed. Just a warning!

The Office of Archives had no employees or director except for Mr. Wintershed. The man was an older gentleman who tended to simply sleep on his wooden stool and, when awake, liked to quote Shakespeare and tell war stories. No one in MACUSA knew which war the man talked about, as it was on public record that the older man never served during the Great War, but he still favored his war stories nonetheless, and almost always carried a copy of Hamlet. No one knew how old the man was, or where he came from, but the man seemed to be a constant in the hustle and bustle of the Woolworth Building. 

Graves nodded to the sleeping man perched on his crooked stool and with Goldstein on his heels, headed to one of the many alcoves of the archives. The corner he chose was surrounded by file cabinets and tomes perched on dusty shelves, where in the center rested an old oak desk and four stiff wooden chairs. Graves draped his coat on the back of one of the chairs, and with a wave of a hand, brought forth a multitude of files. Papers floated through the air and files settled like nesting doves upon the cold table, the harsh lighting of the room seemed akin to that of the interrogation room or one of the death cells. The room itself made the man’s skin crawl, the light far too harsh and the warm color of the wood being drained from the room like a parasite. The calming effect Graves usually felt from a series of old books was gone, leaving only an unsettling coil in his chest as he took a seat. Goldstein was hesitant to follow, taking out her wand to quickly accio for two mugs of coffee as she took her seat. 

“Where do we start?” Goldstein breathes, eyes wide as files and reports continued to rain down, mountains and towers starting to take form around them. 

It was a frightening feeling which they both felt, but didn’t voice, as the papers piled further and further towards the ceiling, very much like the task the President had given them as they stare. A mission to complete the impossible, twenty-two days to find someone, one person out of over seven billion people. Graves trusted Hudson with the task he had given her. He knew that they would not be able to close every case by the time he and Goldstein had found the new director. But he hoped that they would be able to close more cases than gain. 

Goldstein huffs a quiet sigh and took a sip of her coffee, plucking a folder from the air as she settled herself to work without question. Graves almost felt prompted to give instruction, but he reminded himself of Goldstein’s purpose. He had taken her from the Major Investigation Department several years ago, hiring her on to be a senior Auror and had yet to see the consequences of his actions except for her run in with the leader of the New Salemers last week. 

He grasped a chunk of paperwork from one of the towers, placing it in front of him as he cracked open the first report. Hours passed as he worked, their piles of discarded papers growing as their ‘maybe’ pile remained unfounded. It was grueling work, simple but tedious. Reading through each file with a quick dismissal as another took its place. Coffee was quickly forgotten as words and dates blended together.

Goldstein bolted from her seat, file clutched in her hands like a lifeline, grin blooming across her cheeks as she read aloud, “Nora Wang, born in China, moved to America last year, attended Mahoutokoro. Graduated recently and has worked as a certified Magizoologist in several countries and- oh…” Her smile wilts and she settles back in her seat, a flush of shame rising to her cheeks. “Never mind.”

Graves raises an eyebrow, staring his Auror down until the woman mutters something about an accident with a manticore. Graves gave a silent sigh, turning back to his files as he searched. Hours passed as more and more files were dismissed and discarded, a growing pile of unworthy candidates starting to tower over them. With each file adding to the mountain, the more Graves could feel his career slipping away. The Graves family was one of the Original Twelve, and a Graves never failed, but at the rate he and Goldstein were going at, he knows he has a high chance at becoming the first. 

“Anything new?” 

Goldstein slouches in her seat, pulling another stack closer, “We have a…Thomas…Zimmerman? Attended Durmstrang, has an N.E.W.T. in Magical Beasts, a year before the war he studied dragons in the Italy. He was part of the Dragon Platoon during the war.”

“And?”

“And what, Sir?” The woman asks, her usual professional tone gone with the growing hours. 

Graves sighs, the urge to slouch in his own chair as he runs a palm down his face, “And what’s wrong with him?”

She purses her lips, “Dishonorably discharged for selling dragon eggs to enemy forces. Claimed that he sold them for medicine for his sick sister.”

“Let me guess, his sister wasn’t sick.” Graves bit out, dumping another file into the discard pile.

Goldstein sighed, “He didn’t have a sister to begin with, sir.” 

Graves gave a grunt; crossing his legs under the table as he cracked open another file, settling further into his seat as he spared a glance at the clock on the wall. It was almost two in the morning, and still no leads. 

Goldstein shook her head, taking a sip of her coffee as she read out another report, “José Meza, Mexico. Attended Castelobruxo, O.W.L. in Magical Creatures, N.E.W.T. in Herbology. Worked as a field medi-wizard on the front lines, got hit by a curse which cost him an arm. Later was offered a job at the Ministry, but chose to teach back at Castelobruxo.”

Graves’s brow furrows as he begins to doubt the letter Theseus had sent. War records? All they were finding were wizards already with ministry jobs, corrupt soldiers, or deceased. If they were lucky, and not in those categories, they were either too wounded or had already found solace in another career. Nobody cared about magical creatures, not that he did either, but they needed at the very least one person on earth with enough compassion for the strange animals, and enough fighting experience to keep up with his junior Aurors, at the very least. 

So far, according to his and Goldstein’s research, there was no such person. But, Theseus Scamander was a longtime friend of his, had been writing letters since their seventh year during a pen pal assignment designed to forge international relations. 

While in the beginning, their letters had been tense and safe, sticking to mild topics such as the weather, their studies, the differences between their two schools, and the different laws of their magical governments. Towards the end of their year-long assignment though, they had decided to keep in touch. 

That following year, Theseus had told him that he had been drafted for the Great War, and while Americans were not sent at that time, the British were. Graves had tried not to mind the filthy parchment of the battlefield, and in turn gave Theseus news on the outside world and his progress of becoming an Auror. As a trade off, the Brit would speak odes about his brother, a boy two years younger than Graves with a fascination of danger, and who tended to court trouble with earnest glee. 

After the war, they had both landed ministry jobs, their paths sometimes crossing as they rose through the ranks. The topics of their letters changed from war-time hardships to things a bit more sane, Graves often writing about the drama of New York and the idiocy of his co-workers, while Theseus documented life within the ministry, a growing relationship with a woman named Leta, and the exploits of his little brother. However, Graves doubted that Theseus’s letters were all factual. He could understand Theseus’s worry of the (probably imaginary) tension between his girlfriend and his brother, could process the notion of all of the ministry owls coming down with bird flu, halting all of the government’s letters – but there was no way his brother had actually brought a kelpie home from the Mediterranean and kept it in his bathtub for week without the man even realizing it. 

“What was your, erm, acquaintance of the Ministry’s name again?” Goldstein asked, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Theseus Scamander. Why?” Graves answered, eyes searching about for his missing cup of coffee.

“Does he have a brother?” Goldstein asked instead, ignoring his question as she stared down at another file in her hand.

Graves sighed; plucking up his mug of cold coffee from off the floor, warming it was a simple wave of his hand. “Yes, he did mention he had one.”

“Do you know his name?” 

Graves felt a growl rising in his chest, “No. Mind informing me on the reason for the sudden interrogation?”

Goldstein had the decency to blush as she handed over her file. Grave took the unreasonably thick folder with interest. He had heard many stories about the little brother of his friend, and while some of said tales fall under the category of “slightly unlawful”, but Graves doubted that many of the stories were in fact true, for who would rather make friends with an Acromantula rather than a Crup?

He opened the file with expectations of one who had read Theseus Scamander’s file tenfold, had expected the reports to be of flawless duels and accounts of brave endeavors during the war. Percival Graves had not expected a fractured record of lawsuits and prison sentences.

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander.” Graves muttered incredulously, “Attended Hogwarts, earned an O.W.L. in Care for Magical Creatures and Herbology. Expelled from Hogwarts in his fifth year for the endangerment of human life with a beast and two years after his expulsion he was placed in the Dragon Platoon on the war front.” The words fell from his lips and his stomach dropped. Theseus had been almost nineteen when he went to war, while his brother had joined him at the age of seventeen. He knew they had been in different deployments, and could honestly admit that he knew close to nothing about the Dragon Platoon.

“Current location: unknown.” Goldstein muttered eyes downcast. 

Mind whirling, Graves knew he needed a break. “Go home Goldstein. Take the rest of the morning off.” It couldn’t be said he didn’t care for his men, as he stood from his spot, plucking his coat off the back of his seat. 

With a wave of his hand, the files flew back to their rightful place, fingers wrapping around Newton’s file with a gentle sort of grace, a strange need to be careful with the papers clouding his judgment as he stalked out of archives. He ponders going home, to the large empty Graves Manor of musty tomes and forgotten relics. Instead, he heads back to his office, his coat and scarf tucked under one arm, the abundant file in his other as he slows to a stop before his door. 

It was a haunting feeling, a slow chill creeping up his spine and coiling around his ribs, churning his stomach as the papers grew heavier with every passing second. He wonders if everything Theseus had told him was a lie. He wonders if Newton had actually taken a Kelpie from the Mediterranean and kept it in his brother’s bathtub. He wonders if the man had befriended an Acromantula and had brought it to the Ministry’s holiday party, resulting in pandemonium. He wonders if Newton had in fact filled Theseus’s bed with fire crabs during one particularly cold winter and wonders if he truly kept a Bowtruckle in his coat pocket. 

Graves wonders if Theseus told him to check the records so he would find his brother’s file. 

The dark corridor feels narrow and unforgiving at that moment, a cold feeling of betrayal settling in his chest as his fingers itch for a quill. He wants to ask his so-called friend if he knew about his brother’s record, if he knew how many laws his little brother had broken, if he knew his brother hadn’t finished school. He wants to ask why Theseus had wanted Graves to find Newton’s file. 

Shifting his coat and scarf to the crook of his arm, he cracks open the file once more, and starts to read. He notices the small discrepancies, the fact that there was no photo of the man or how the statement of his expulsion was vague at best. He notices that a “Leta Lestrange” was involved, and he wonders if it’s the same woman who Theseus is dating. He reads through reports from almost every magical government, each stating that there had been a conflict of interests at some point, which Newton had always chosen the creature over the wizard. Once the beast had somehow disappeared, Scamander had somehow disappeared as well. He reads reports he thinks are false – one about a Niffler stealing from high security banks in Russia and another about a rampaging Nundu in India. Many of the papers were simply documented sightings of the man, seen in Egypt and Sudan, Norway and Greece, Haiti and Cuba.

Graves wonders why Theseus had led him to the file, the Brit no doubt planning this beforehand. Newton Scamander was under-qualified for employment of any kind, no kind of certification on record and not even an N.E.W.T. to his name. And yet, Graves wanted to ask the younger man if it was true. Graves wanted to ask if every file, every report, every sentence was true. Graves was intrigued, and it had been many, many years since he had felt such an emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, Newt faced expulsion in 1912 when he was 15 (just barely had time to take his OWLs), and then traveled for about two years until WWI began in 1914. Tina also had a bit of time-line skew as instead of facing Mary Lou in 1926, she met Credence a year earlier, which is just before this AU begins (1925). 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Next update may be a bit late due to my looming exams, but I will try my best.  
> Next update:  
> February 2nd


	5. Putting the "Zoo" in "Magizoology"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picquery and Graves discuss possible director candidates and shares his worries with Picquery. Disaster strikes MACUSA and Graves starts the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence with animals and OoC.

Percival Graves was not a happy man by nature. 

He was not a sad or depressed man. He did not wallow in pity or misery, and he did not worry about small and inconsequential details. Instead Graves liked to focus on the larger part of things, to focus on the learning of knowledge not for the joy it brings but rather as means to an end – to finish a set task efficiently, and to complete the given objective. 

And that was all. 

While in school, when he favored textbooks over roughhousing in the courtyard with the other Wampus students during his years in Ilvermorny, it was not because he wanted to pour over books on the ethics of transfiguration, but rather because a high grade was to get him into Auror training. When he asserted himself to become Quidditch Captain, the only goal in mind was not the game itself, but how the position would give him the leadership experience he would need to become a superb Auror. During his Auror training, Graves learned quickly that the job itself would not make him happy, but rather to give him a purpose, a sense of worth.

However, the night before, his worth had been placed in the role combing over files like an intern with one of his senior Aurors, and while he had given the woman the morning off to rest, he had no such luxury. 

“How are you progressing on the search for a director?” 

Picquery glides down the hall by his side, his lips pursing at her words as her jeweled turban sparkles in the electric lights, her golden dress wrapping around her like a second skin. Graves takes a breath to brush his vest free of wrinkles as he stays in pace with the striding woman. 

“It’s is progressing further than expected, Madam President.” Graves answers, “Goldstein was kind enough to offer her help in searching through the archives last night with me.”

Picquery scoffs, “Goldstein doesn’t ‘offer’. You cornered her, didn’t you.” 

Graves replies as he sees Picquery hide a private smile, “I’m not sure what you mean, Ma’am.” 

“Of course, of course.” Picquery says, eyes gleaming in the bright light “Have either of you found any worthy candidates to present to me?”

Graves stiffens beside her, “Yes and no. We searched through all of our files based on the war records for suitable candidates. While some were promising prospects, they have either been incapacitated or found dead. The others have found jobs elsewhere.”

“Is there a chance for us to persuade some of them to joining MACUSA?” Picquery questions, turning their walk down a different corridor, leading the pair further into the maze of MACUSA halls. 

“Perhaps. There were a few who stood out to me, however.” Graves concedes; a small pang of guilt striking his chest as Picquery tilts her head in interest, “José Meza. O.W.L. in Magical Creatures, N.E.W.T. in Herbology, but lost an arm in the war.”

“Last I checked, a wizard only needs one arm to wave a wand.” Picquery states, “Send the man a letter detailing the position, see if he accepts.”

“Of course.” Graves confirms, locking his palms together behind his back. 

“And the others?” 

“Excuse me?” Graves asks. 

Picquery raises a sculpted brow, “You said a ‘few who stood out’, did you not? José Meza was one, who were the others?”

Graves purses his lips, thinking to the file still sitting on his desk. “There were no others. Only Meza.” 

“I see.” Picquery nods, expression carefully closing as she slows their pace, “I must admit to you Graves, I did not expect you to make such progress so soon. I realize your efforts long before my decision, but my choice still stands. If the peace is broken, then everything MACUSA has ever fought for will be for not. This is the eleventh hour, Graves, and I believe that this department and your choices will shape the next chapter of MACUSA.”

Graves blinks, brow furrowing as a strange feeling of wrongness settles behind his heart. “My choices are not entirely mine; some of the credit should Goldstein and my contact from the Ministry.” 

“The Ministry?” 

“After our first meeting, I sent a letter to an Auror named Theseus Scamander.” Graves replies. 

“The war hero?” Picquery asks, nodding to a passing employee. 

“I have known him for almost thirteen years, Madam – Long before his titles and awards.” Graves admits, “He speaks often of his family and the Ministry, though with their efforts of tracking down Grindelwald, his letter was short. He gave Goldstein and I a place to start, to search our records of wizards who had fought in the war.” 

Picquery nods approvingly, “It would make sense. Wizards who had fought in the war and with profitable N.E.W.T.s are highly sought after. By now, most veterans have been offered jobs and lives of their own, but there are still some in search of a place to make a home.” Picquery chances a glance to her right hand man, noticing the closed expression rest on Graves’s features, “You seem unsure, Graves. It is unlike you to hesitate. What is it always said during your training? ‘A Graves never hesitates’?”

Graves sighs, stopping in their walk as Picquery stops as well, prim hands folding behind her back as she waits for him to speak, “I worry Theseus Scamander led me to the war records to find his brother’s file.”

Picquery nods, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, “And you do not think his brother would be a good fit?”

“No, not quite. From Theseus’s letters, the younger brother, Newton Scamander is…different.”

“Being different is not necessarily a bad thing, Percival.” Picquery chides. 

“No, I mean-“Graves flounders for a moment, before he finds his resolve, “No sane man would befriend half of the beasts he has met. No sane man would choose these creatures over his own brother. He faced expulsion from Hogwarts for endangering human life. He has warrants for his arrest in every other country and is known to favor dangerous beasts over wizard-kind-“

“And if I am to trust your words, Graves, then it seems that the older Scamander loves his family deeply, and it seems that he trusts you as well. The younger Scamander sounds that he is married to his work, devoted and determined. Sound familiar?”

Graves stiffens, seeing the parallels to himself and Newton. 

“He’s a criminal.” Graves bites out. 

“He’s a chance for MACUSA to keep the peace between No-Majs and Wizards.” Picquery speaks calmly, her shoulders back and regal as ever.

“Yes, a chance. A chance which can fail.” 

“Do you trust in Theseus Scamander?” Picquery smiles, eyes glimmering.

Graves responds without hesitation, “Of course.”

“Then extend that trust to Newton. Who knows, he might surprise us all.” Picquery says, bringing their conversation to a close, already turning on her heel to leave.

“Yes, but-“ Graves stops, a shudder wracking the walls around them. 

The pair freezes in their places, listening carefully until the walls shake once more, dust falling from the high-strung rafters, stiff plaster beginning to crack and crumble as the tremors shake, the sound of the MACUSA shifting and trembling as panicking yells and shouts sound from the lobby. The thundering stills to a stop, the building silent in the wake of the quake, Graves taking a step forward as his heart beats in his ears, blood pumping as his steps echo in the empty hall. Dust wafts through the air, catching on the strands of sunlight as particles float to the ground, covering his once pristine polished shoes in a thin veil of grime. 

“…Percival?” Picquery breathes, wand in hand as she dares not to move, eyeing the ceiling above them in distrust. 

Graves takes another step, his heel clicking against the cement ground as he reaches for the door which leads to the entrance hall, steady hand wrapping around the cold knob as he twists, door cracking open with a sharp squeak of its hinge, his dark eyes flickering across the frozen Aurors, their eyes glued to the walls and ceiling, no enemy or Grindelwald fanatic in sight. It was as if time had been frozen, or like peering at a No-Maj photograph, the falling dust washing the color from the room as no one dares to move. 

He can feel Picquery follow behind him as he enters the lobby, the Magical Exposure Threat Level Clock unmoving and unchanging as the silence drags on. It makes him want to wait alongside his Aurors, to wait and see what will happen next.

A sudden noise shook the ground beneath his feet, dust rising around them as a bellowing shriek echoes through the walls of MACUSA. Graves tenses at the sound as the shuddering returns full force once more, a multitude of roars and screeches rumbling through the corridors as the sound nears closer, dread piling in his chest as he stares at the closest door. 

A moment of hesitation, and the door slams open, a set of claws tearing it from its hinges as the wood shatters to the floor, beasts of all shapes and sizes pile into the lobby; Acromantulas start to crawl up the walls in a flurry of black, Glumbumbles taking to the air as centaurs and Hippogriffs stampeding towards the startled Aurors. Erklings, Pixies, Murtlaps and various smaller creatures piling into the lobby in frenzy, all other noise is drowned out by the various cries of the creatures as Graves lets his first spell fly. Wizards snap into focus as his spell hits, blue light downing a grey-toned Augurey mid-flight as the room was then lit by a plethora of ricocheting spells fill the air, debris falling around them as creatures scrape at the walls and try to smash windows in the panic. 

With time, the screams and roaring ceases and Graves is left in the center of the destruction, the M.E.T.L. Clock in a broken heap a couple of feet from him, animals strewn across the ground as Aurors work to contain them once more, people rushing about to check the prisoners in the Cells and medi-wizards checking for potential injuries.

Graves looks up to see Picquery standing tall on the crumpled heap of the M.E.T.L. Clock, her dress immaculate and every jewel upon her turban in place and shining. Light dances across the walls as she surveys the final dregs of the chaos, her form almost glowing in the golden evening sun. Her rage held in the tight grip of her wand, perfect brows taunt and features carefully blank. A suspended Pixie levitates behind her left shoulder and a paralyzed Murtlap squeals at her feet as she puffs her chest and straightens her shoulders, her challenging gaze meeting his eyes calmly as she speaks clearly as her voice rings out.

“To put this plainly, Mr. Graves,” Picquery announces, her tone leaving no room for argument, “I don’t give a fuck how the hell you find Mr. Scamander. But I want him in MACUSA headquarters faster than I can say ‘Salem’. Is that clear?” 

Graves swallows as Picquery stands above him, looking down at him like a serpent ready to strike. 

“Crystal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! Life got a bit messy for me and haven't been able to do much writing. Chapter six may be up a bit late due to mid-terms, but hopefully will be up by next Saturday. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next update: February 16th (or at the latest February 23rd)


	6. How Large is Europe Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves and Goldstein leave for Europe and luck seems to be on their side.

_‘He likes to be called Newt.’_

Six words are all which Theseus Scamander writes to Graves over an hour after the destruction of MACUSA’s foyer.

After the rubble had been cleared and a series of steady stasis charms placed on each of the beasts and moved back to their cages, Percival Graves had wasted no time to make arrangements to get himself out of the country as fast as legally possible. For an hour, Graves busies himself with sending his paperwork to Hudson’s desk and make arrangements with the Department of Transportation and Travel for an international portkey.

Portkeys were not Mr. Graves’s first choice of travel, however, he only knew a handful of Americans who did enjoy transport by portkeys, and in turn, were readily available at almost all times. Of course, there were many other ways to reach Europe, appariation stations, the international floo network, and even by No-Maj steamboat was a favored way to go unnoticed. He knows the docks were almost in constant movement with ships bringing in immigrants and tourists, the prohibition bringing no sway on the world’s view of America, as finding a ship to Europe would be no issue. But, with only twenty-one days left, he would be happy to land in almost any country possible, the farther from England the better. 

From what Graves could tell from Theseus’s letters and Newton- Newt’s file, the man would do anything in his power to stray from his homeland. Graves had yet to understand why Newt did so, traveling place to place, having no place to call a home. Perhaps he was true to his reputation, that he favored beasts over humans, or perhaps the man did not like to be tied down, held down to live only in one place for the rest of his life but rather to explore the world at his leisure, laws and rules be damned. 

A knock from the door pushes Graves from his thoughts as he places the last file into its place in the drawer of his desk, standing from his chair as Goldstein rushes into the room, her brown hair frazzled and messy as she stumbles slightly, eyes wide as she stares at him as he pushes in his chair. 

“You can’t come.” Graves greets, the woman straightening as she gapes, mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

She pauses for a moment, before determination growing in her eyes at the challenge as she strides to his desk, her short heels clicking against the marble floors as he wraps his scarf around his neck.

“Sir, with all due respect, you did not keep me up all night looking through files older than Mr. Wintershed himself to only leave me behind on this chase. I’m coming with.”

“Do you even know where I am going, Ms. Goldstein?” Graves retorts, stepping around her and heading for the door in quick strides. 

“No, sir. But if I may be so bold sir, I do know you will need my help.”

Graves leaves through the now open door, Goldstein on his heels as he pulls the door shut, locking it with a wave of his hand as he starts down the hall, “And what would give you that passing thought, Ms. Goldstein?”

“I’m a Thunderbird, Mr. Graves. Adventuring is in my blood.” Goldstein says, her lips pursing as she takes his words to continue, “If anyone can connect to Newton, sir, I’ll have a better chance than you sir, no offense. Before becoming part of your department, I worked in Major Investigations. I helped you find his name, so let me help you find the rest of Mr. Scamander.”

Graves takes a minute to ponder her words, entering the elevator and punching in the necessary floor for the Department of Transportation and Travel, ignoring the indignant of squawk of Red as Goldstein shuffles besides him. Tina Goldstein was a smart woman, even back in Ilvermorny. She was a few years younger than him, the same age as Newt if he remembers correctly, and to this day he can still remember his teachers groaning about the trouble the Goldstein sisters would wander into. Goldstein was a stubborn woman, was a giver by nature and understood the need to help the less fortunate. If anything, Graves saw Goldstein as someone much better suited to connect with Newt than himself, and would be more inclined to come with them back to America. A Thunderbird would be closest he would be able to find to a Hufflepuff. 

Graves grunts, “Fine,” Graves bites, “But remember, another screw up like with Mary Lou and that boy and I’ll have you sent right back here and sent to the Wand Permit Office before you can say Thunderbird.”

Goldstein rocks back on her heels slightly as a small show of glee, “No worries sir, I’m sure we’ll find Newton Scamander within the time period. I haven’t got a doubt.”

The elevator dings as the doors open, Red muttering under his breath as they exit, as the Department of Transportation and Travel stands before them, marble floo networks lining the walls and golden portkey stations tucked away in the corners. In the center of the room is a bustle of energy, tourists arguing with employees and cats chasing paper mice to and fro across the tile floor. Owls and eagles alike swoop through the air as carrier pigeons nest quietly in the high strung rafters, Aurors rushing past peeved families and pleading immigrants as entry and wand permits were flown though the air, knocking into birds and wayward spells as Graves sets off, skirting the edges of the room as his coat billows behind him, as he crosses the room to a single portkey station behind a smoldering floo network fireplace, green flames still sputtering in the ashes as Goldstein and Graves settle before the station. 

The station itself is a box painted on the floor with gold paint, the metallic color simmering in the electric lights as a tall table stood in its center, a singular clipboard and an ornate vase sitting primly on its varnished wood surface. 

Graves picks up the clip board on the small desk and starts to fill out the necessary forms, making sure to add Goldstein to the list, “Actually, according to his brother, he likes to be called ‘Newt’.”

“So…” Goldstein begins, uncertain with the new information as she acquaints herself with the station, eyes catching on the carefully painted blue and white flowers on the pale porcelain. “His name is Newton ‘Newt’ Artemis Fido Scamander.” Goldstein grimaces, an amused glint in her eye, “Quite the unfortunate name, don’t you think?”

“Quite.” Graves agrees, a small tug pulling at the corner of his lips as he finishes the forms and places them back on table, nodding in thanks to a passing employee. “Hold on tight, Ms. Goldstein.”

“Of course,” Goldstein confirms, gripping the lip of the vase in an iron tight grip, “however, if we are going to be traveling together sir, you can just call me Tina, sir.” Tina confirms with a small smile. 

“If that will make you more comfortable during this mission, Tina.” Graves tries, the name sitting awkwardly on his tongue. 

Graves grips the lip of the vase as well, nails scrapping at the insides of the glassware was the tell-tale signs of the portkey begin to warp around them, his stomach dropping to his feet and heart lifting to his throat as colors blur together, a storm of noise spinning around them as Graves fights to keep his eyes open, Tina disappearing from sight before the world rights itself just as quickly. Colors begin to unweave and settle into the shapes of tall brick buildings and flowers blooming in windowsill boxes. The roar of noise settles to the small hum of polite chatter and gossip of a quiet corner of a small alcove.

Tina staggers besides him, knees wobbling as she clings to the wall with one hand, the other trying desperately to stuff the portkey into her trench coat pocket, the vase slipping into the extended pockets with a bit of trouble due to the woman's trembling fingers. 

“Where are we?” Tina gasps, finally shoving the rest of the portkey into her coat as she leans against the wall.

“We are in a small wizarding community in southern France, only about thirty miles from Beauxbatons.” Graves answers, seeing Tina nod slightly in understanding.

“Do we even know what Mr. Scamander even looks like?” Tina questions, patting her pocket carefully as she looks around the corner to the street, a few wizards passing by giving them a strange look on their way past. 

Graves shakes his head, trying to push the nausea from his mind as he answers, “There was no picture in his file, but from what I can tell from his brother’s letter and his family tree; then he should be tall with red hair, with a Bowtruckle in his chest pocket.” 

“A Bowtruckle? Don’t those pick locks?” Tina says, straightening her stance as she walks to the entrance to the sidewalk. 

“It might explain how Mr. Scamander is able to escape custody so often,” Graves states his theory, starting to walk down the road with false confidence as Tina joins him by his side. 

The road was fairly empty for the moment, only a pair of boys playing with wooden swords and a pair of gossiping women walking side by side on the other side of the small cobblestone street. It was early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky as a soft breeze flows over the rooftops as small restaurants and cafes lined the streets as the strong smell of flowers and freshly baked bread wafts through the street. It was a quiet town, and from what Graves could tell they stood out like a sore thumb, dressed in the standard dark clothes of a New Yorker and the polished shoes of an American. Tina stood beside him in her pinstripe suit and black kitten heels, as the women across the street wore long flowing dresses and shallow flats, the neighbor quaint and peaceful, a sharp contrast of the No-Maj cityscape surrounding MACUSA. 

Suddenly, Tina stiffens next to him, he shoulders tensing as she grips his sleeve and pulls him into an alleyway between an old bookstore and a home remedy apothecary, the tip of his toe hitting an empty bottle further into the inlet as Tina pushes them into the shadows. 

“Is that him?” Tina whispers, peering around the corner of a red brick building to peer into the front window of the bakery across the street, “He doesn’t look like much.”

Graves looks around the bend, and found he couldn’t agree more. The only sight of Newt being a shoulder covered by a blue coat and flash of faded red hair with the distinct slight of a Bowtruckle standing on his shoulder as the rest of him was hidden by large group of teenage gossiping witches. 

“And you have to admit,” Tina continues, “for a man who no one can find, we found him almost instantly. For a man with such a reputation, shouldn’t this have been harder?”

“Perhaps,” Graves concedes, “but this is a man who can find beasts which can turn invisible and make friends with a dragon.”

“So we got lucky?” Tina frowns. 

Graves shakes his head slightly, “There is no such thing as luck, Goldstein. You forget that many people have seen Scamander, but keeping him in one place is an entirely different matter.” 

“So we just need to surprise him, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that-“ Graves begins to fight before Tina purses her lips, a determined light dancing in her eyes. 

“Leave it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the late update! I have already half of chapter seven written and I can't wait for Newt to play a larger role in this fic. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next update: March 2nd!


	7. Newt Scamander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are made, Graves hesitates, and Newt finds he isn't too fond of Americans.

If Newt Scamander was to be described by a passing stranger, they wouldn’t have been able to account a single distinguishing feature upon the man. He was tall, but failed to tower over people. His hair color was neither red nor brown, but a strange mix of something in between. His eyes were not blue or green, but something in the middle of the two. He was lithe, but not malnourished. He did not see himself as particularly beautiful, unlike his mother. He wasn’t smart like his father and he was not brave like his brother. In fact, in comparison of his brother, Newt fell short in every sense of the word. 

Where Theseus was brave, Newt was meek. Where Theseus thrived in social situations, Newt was busy looking for the closest exit. Where Theseus was the war hero, Newt was the no-name soldier in the Dragon Platoon. Where Theseus was one of the top Aurors in all of Europe, Newt was an uncertified, unregistered, slightly unlawful, trouble making Magizoologist who hadn’t even finished his schooling. 

Between the two brothers, the similarities between the two men were sparse and few in between. In school, they had both thrived in Defense, and when at home during the holidays, their duels had them matching each other for every jinx and curse. For Theseus, each duel was a battle, while for Newt it was a dance. Where Theseus was strong and unforgiving, Newt was quick and flexible. Where Theseus bombarded one with heavy spells, Newt favored dodging and the use of shields. They both shared a love for hippogriffs due to their late mother, and they shared a passion for old books often forgotten by time from their father. As time passed on, they soon had another similarity, which both of the brothers at some point became deeply acquainted with Leta Lestrange. 

Since his brother’s entanglement with Leta, Newt had decided to become even more dedicated to his travels, as he chose to stay abroad instead of returning. He still wrote letters, giving a short excuse of tending to a sick Wampus during Christmas, a rampaging Ironbelly during Theseus’s birthday, a territorial Kelpie during Samhain. It became a ritual of sorts, Newt avoiding his brother and his newfound girlfriend, focusing on his growing collection of notebooks, bouncing from country to country, extending his suitcase with a growing multitude of charms as his family of creatures grew with each passing week. 

Before Newt knew it, it had been seven years of travel, of jumping from rain forest to desert, of searching and endless notes. Seven years of making himself a home inside a beat up suitcase with a busted latch and keeping secrets he was far too loyal to keep. Along the way, his suitcase became a thriving home to his creatures and himself; the small shack he lived in was small and cramped, but had everything he ever needed. Four years into his travels, he had gotten funding to write his own book on the care of magical creatures, and in turn, had the money travel even further beyond Europe. 

It was seven years of often times sticking his nose where it had no right to be, when the authorities decided to give chase. He had perhaps expected the Aurors of Britain, his brother maybe ordering them to drag him home for that holiday dinner he had been skipping out on for the last few years. Or maybe forces from Russia, with his stunt with their muggle mafia and his Niffler. He would even believe someone being sent from Egypt, with him releasing an understandably furious Thunderbird in the middle of Cairo only two hours after his arrival. 

But he had to admit, Americans had not been anywhere near that long, long list. 

He wasn’t sure why they had decided to give chase, as he hadn’t stepped foot on U.S soil ever in his life, and hadn’t visited any of the American territories for quite some time, but they had decided to rudely interrupt his meal at a small bakery in France without reason. 

Not that Newt had given them the time of day to state that reason, but surely he was justified enough to flee with a wand pointed in his face. 

There were two of them, a tall woman with short slightly curly hair in high-waist slacks and a cream colored button up blouse and drab grey trench coat. She entered first, sharp brown eyes looking over the crowd and quickly became occupied trying to break through the sea of gossiping teenage witches, while the second Auror followed behind the woman at a slower pace, looking every bit exhausted and exasperated at the antics of the woman as he stood behind her calmly, no wand in sight. The man was tall, not taller than the woman, but he was the first of the two newcomers to lock eyes with Newt. He was almost impressed with the man, as Newt had taken the liberty to hide securely behind the wall of adolescents and in a secluded corner for Newt and his Niffler, Hugo, to enjoy a cup of tea before their evening train. The man stood still for just a moment across the bakery from him, shoulders tensing as the woman in front turns as well, as the man slowly raises his hand, fingers pointed towards Newt’s chest as the woman rushes for her pocket. 

No opening conversations, no greetings, no “You’re under arrest for illegal possession of magical creatures, trespassing…”. No such courtesy Newt had been expecting, nothing like the Aurors before them as Newt drops his croissant without dropping his gaze with the man. Newt races to his feet, light beginning to gather at the tip of the woman’s wand as he grabs his suitcase from the floor and his Niffler off the chair next to him and quickly apparate without a single destination in mind and the moment his feet hit foreign ground, he starts running. 

He holds Hugo tight to his chest as the tell-tale click of his latch sounds from his suitcase, Dougal no doubt hearing the commotion and wanting to help, as Pickett chirps from his perch, the Bowtruckle sliding from his place on his shoulder to Newt’s breast pocket, hiding under his coat collar as Newt dashes for the train station. He runs through the street with his case striking his legs with every step, diving around throngs of milling people and chattering elders as Newt dashes into Muggle France, leaving the safety of the wizarding community in favor of the safety from magic Muggles brought with them. 

For a while, Newt had thought it was over. Once reaching the muggle train station, Newt had gotten a refund on his ticket to Budapest and purchased a new ticket to Greece, and hadn’t seen any sign of his tailing Aurors. Newt ponders the probability of them maybe getting tail of the wrong Scamander – Newt wouldn’t put it pass Theseus and his Gryffindor pride to piss off Aurors from another country. He even remembers Theseus mentioning the fact he had a pen pal from America. 

The terminal was barren for early afternoon, most of the trains not set to arrive until later that evening as very few muggles wandering about. Only three trains were in the station, one of them being his transport to Greece as the warning whistle blew and the din of passengers scurrying aboard made Newt walk a bit quicker. Apparition crosses his mind as he walks up the red brick staircase across a sky bridge to the proper side of the station for boarding, the notion of splinching churning in his stomach being the only thing keeping him on the ground. 

“Mr. Scamander,” A female voice calls, and Newt stops in his steps, turning about slowly as the two Aurors stood at the end of the corridor behind him, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

The man takes a step forward, raising a hand to be level with Newt’s chest, “Mr. Scamander, we just want to talk.”

Newt can’t help as a scoff breaks from his throat, “’Talk’?” Newt dips his head slightly, looking at the man through his bangs as Hugo squirms in his coat pocket, “Is that what you Americans call it? Casting spells against someone who hasn’t done anything? ‘Talking?’”

Newt takes a step back, the man lowering his arm a fraction as he spoke, before Newt continues, the blow of a train whistle cuts through the air once more, the distinct sound of its wheels turning against the rails as the train starts to depart.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to piss you the right off, but I think I really must be going.” Newt says, taking a final step back as the two Aurors lunge, his apparition sending him to the moving train down below. 

A sharp sting slices through his ear as he shudders, eyes roaming about the small cab car, the rumble of the train thundering under his feet as Newt shifts, crates and suitcases stacked high to the ceiling around him, jutting pillars of hat boxes and burlap bags of coffee beans towering over him as Newt reaches to his ear, his fingers touching the splinch carefully as Newt drags his fingers away from the small missing piece of his ear, the tacky feel of drying blood lying on the tips of his fingers as he tugs his hair down over the cut, stumbling out of the cab and into the seating car. 

Newt quickly takes the first seat he can, and takes out his ticket as the conductor walks by, nodding in greeting as the man tilts his head in question at the sight of Newt.   
“Cut yourself shaving, did you?” The conductor asks, handing back the ticket with ease as he points to the collar of his shirt. 

Newt nods, lowering his head slightly as he takes the ticket, noticing the drops of blood on his collar, “Yeah, uh, something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt is finally introduced!!!!!! Not entirely happy with the chapter, and everyone's a bit out of character, but we're getting there. The next chapter will be late due to me going out of town without internet, so I apologize beforehand for the late chapter. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next update: March 16th


	8. France and Greece and Egypt Oh My!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt defies all of Graves's expectations and Tina and Graves learn a bit more about each other. Tina has another idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are slowly getting longer and longer with each update...

Newt Scamander was someone Graves had difficulties placing, that in the shadowy corner of the bakery the man was something akin to a mystery. He was tall in height, taller than Percival that is, hair highlighted to a glowing red in the sparse rays of sunlight. A stray beam of daylight had hit the man’s eyes, making them sparkle like an ever changing sea, visible from across the room as Newt had looked up from staring at the seemingly empty chair next to him. His bright eyes flickered across the bakery to settle on Tina and then Graves, where for the first moment, there was vague recognition, realization of that Graves and his partner was neither French nor civilian wizards, but something else. 

For a moment, Graves had expected Newt to run immediately, but the man in question had instead stayed where he was, watching in amusement as Tina battled with the swarm of gossiping witches. There was caution in his shoulders, spine rigid and tense like the taunt strings upon a violin, but ever so slightly leaned forward rather than away, curiosity swimming in his features as he watched Graves with prying eyes which made him raise his wand arm for the initial spell, shoulders set to release the first wandless charm and-

Graves had faltered. 

Tina had seen his movement from the corner of her eye, and had rushed to grasp her wand, Newt’s eyes widening as he dropped the cup from his hands, tan freckled skin turning pale as he leapt for his case and pulled a creature from the seat next to him – a strange rodent squirming in his grasp as a _pop!_ sounded across the room, just in time for Tina’s spell to latch on to the wall where Newt had once stood. They had then chased him from France to Greece, and while Graves was positive the Magizoologist wouldn’t have dared to go across the Mediterranean to return to Egypt, especially after reading the dozens of warrants for his arrest involving a thunderbird, the man had exceeded his expectations and had done exactly that, disappearing into the desert without even so much as a look over his shoulder. 

To complicate matters more, the Governor of Egypt had stopped them when they had tried to follow, telling him that due to extreme heat, Graves and Tina would not be permitted to follow Newt for their own safety. Instead, Graves and Tina had been escorted to the closest hotel and left on the stoop, no bags in hand and dust wrinkled clothes on their backs. Begrudgingly, Graves had thanked the man and set to reserve a room for the night, taking the key quickly from the host and shuffling up to his room with Tina trailing softly behind. 

Graves opens the door of his room without fanfare, the old wooden door squeaking open to a single room with two twin beds, a small coffee table pressed against a wall and two doors on either side of the room. Both of the said doors were open, one leading to a darkened bathroom and a balcony, the sight of a twisted iron railing the only thing Graves could see outside. The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper of soft blue flowers and uneven hardwood flooring, sand laying stubbornly in the cracks. Graves enters the dimly lit room, peeling his coat from his sweat soaked back as he tosses it to the bed closest to the balcony, a cloud of dust rushing into the air the moment the weight hit the bedspread.

Behind him, Tina gives a small cough but says nothing, as she walks to the restroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Graves almost sighs, the chase of the Scamander had been quiet and terse after Tina’s botched plan in France. His partner hadn’t spoken to him in three days and while the heavy weight of tension pressed down on his shoulders, Graves had been too busy trying to track his friend’s younger brother to care.

Graves rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie, pulling a flask from his back pocket and emptying its contents into an empty glass resting on the table, heading towards the balcony with his drink as the floor squeals under his step. The balcony was small but not cramped, large enough for maybe three people to stand, with a wooden lawn chair resting in the corner overlooking the city. There was a strong iron railing guarding him from the edge, where near the door a sharp dent lay twisting the lip up and over the siding as if a wayward spell had struck and curled the metal. Like the room inside, the outlet was covered in a thin layer of sand, the grains shifting under the soles of his shoes as he took a seat in the worn canvas of the folding chair, the glass in his hand a heavy weight tethering him from his thoughts.

“Director,” Tina says, her voice quiet as she edges onto the balcony with him. Her presence gives him a much needed distraction as he raises his gaze to meet hers, the warm night air fluttering through her hair as she stares with a guilty gaze, “Sir, I must apologize for my previous actions. I had thought that maybe catching him by surprise would have worked, I…” Tina pauses, eyes catching on the crystal glass in his hands, “Is that whiskey? May I remind you that the consumption of alcohol is illegal.”

“In America perhaps, but not in Cairo.” Graves answers calmly, taking a sip of his drink before he continues, “Besides, don’t act like you don’t frequent the speakeasy down on 8th. I may not go down there, but I have plenty of eyes who do.”

Tina gives an indignant huff before taking a step closer, resting her arms on the railing of the balcony. She had changed into her pajamas, where she had gotten them without a suitcase Graves didn’t know, but thought it would be impolite to ask. Graves himself hadn’t brought any change of clothes or nightwear, as the mere idea of staying so long out of the States had been a shudder down his spine. Of course, if things had gone to his liking, then Newt would already be setting up his desk back at MACUSA.

Graves shifts in his seat, a sudden burning heat in his chest eager to start placing blame on the woman, an ugly voice in his head spewing about how the woman before him had not scared off the younger Scamander, not once but twice. Graves had an urge to blame the Governor, the need to leave and argue their case – which a quick entrance to the desert would be all Tina and Graves would need to find Newt. If everything had taken the chance to go according to plan, then perhaps the Magizoologist would already be back in New York via portkey. 

Trying to stray from unnecessary thoughts, Graves choses to change the subject. 

“Is this your first time out of America, Ms. Gol-” Graves starts, Tina shooting the man a look as he corrects himself, “-Tina.”

Tina takes a moment to respond, her gaze cast out beyond the horizon as stars sparkle in the dark sky above, “Yes.” Tina concedes, “I never thought I would ever step foot off U.S. soil. Never thought I would want to, you see. Queenie and I never had enough money to travel, barely had enough money to get us through school after our parents died. Beyond Ilvermorny and New York, I never thought I would go any further, and I was fine with that. But this?” She says, looking out over the mumbling city, eyes alight with joy at the glittering lights and fresh night air free of smog, “This is beautiful. It’s something I never would have dreamed of.” Tina pauses for a moment, before turning her focus back to Graves. “What about you, sir? Did you ever travel? For leisure, I mean. The war doesn’t count.”

Graves took another sip of his whiskey, “I didn’t fight in the war.”

“Really? I thought all men were drafted.” Tina turns, leaning her back against the railing to face Graves. 

“All No-Maj men. For the wizarding world, it was optional however expected. The previous President thought it would have been a waste if the last Graves were to die on the front lines, so I stayed back and continued with my Auror training.” Graves confirms, “Perhaps if I had been drafted, I wouldn’t have hesitated when we met Scamander.” 

Tina’s brow furrows, “What do you mean?”

“I agree that it was a mistake to charge at Newt in the bakery, but it was not completely your fault. I had seen him first, while you had been distracted by the Beauxbatons girls, and he hadn’t been alarmed at the time. I don’t think he realized that I have no need for a wand to preform magic. According to my guess, Theseus must not have told Newt much about me, and I should have used that to my advantage.” Graves admits, “But it wasn’t just in the bakery, but above the platform.”

“He was scared, Graves. Angry. He’s probably been hunted before; he even said he didn’t know why he was being chased.” Tina supplements, before she drops her gaze, “I do worry though…”

“How so?” Graves asks, fingering his empty glass idly. 

Tina purses her lips, “Scamander was in a hurry to run, and had boarded a moving train into an unknown car. A botched apparition can lead to splinching or worse…” 

Graves nods as he sets his glass to the balcony floor, “If he was injured, Scamander would have stopped somewhere for medical attention. France was three days ago, by now he would have stopped somewhere for treatment.”

“Where do you think he is going to go?” Tina asks. 

Graves leans back in his chair, “Someplace safe, probably. A place we wouldn’t think of, someplace that would be safe enough for him to stay but with enough routes to make a quick getaway. Familiar terrain, familiar-“

“Family.” Tina blurts out, her eyes widening as she lifts her gaze. “He’s going back to Theseus.”

“Why would he do that? He hasn’t gone back in years. Hell, his brother has literally tried everything in his power to see his brother again. Why would Newt go to place he hates.” Graves argues, disbelief coursing through his veins. 

If Seraphina was correct in her theory that Newt and Graves were similar, then Graves could easily conclude that Newt would do everything in his power to continue on south or eastward towards China. From what Graves knew, the two of them favor work over social interaction, they would go to the ends of the world for their career, and returning home was a death sentence of responsibly and failed expectations. Graves knew personally that he would do anything not to return to the Graves Manor, but instead simply go home to his New York apartment in the center of No-Maj hustle and bustle. 

“Because it’s familiar.” Tina fights, her argument not having much evidence to withhold. 

Graves shakes his head, “Maybe Newt has an apartment elsewhere. He can’t have traveled for seven years without returning to a place to call home, no matter how brief.”

Tina scowls; no heat in her eyes but stubbornness in her stance as she looks down Graves, “Not if it means endangering his creatures. Just trust me on this.”

Graves fights the urge to roll his eyes, picking his glass up from the floor to bring it to his lips only to remember its empty state, as he sighs and concedes, “London it is, Tina. London it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It feels like its been forever since I posted something! I will be adding more tags after this chapter is up, nothing major or anything, but just a heads up for you guys. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next update: March 23rd!


	9. Ministry Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt returns home. Theseus and Newt talk about the meaning of family.

Heading into the desert hadn’t been one of Newt’s smarter ideas, the man thought. 

It had been a rash decision on his part, Newt knew, but after three long days with little to no sleep, back alley way chases, train car hopping, risky apparitions, and fighting to keep the busted latch on his case shut, Newt had found the only thing he wanted was some quiet time inside his suitcase without the risk capture. 

Newt had been in tough situations before, been through war and had been chased out of cities teeming with Aurors, had almost died of starvation, dehydration, and had gathered a myriad of scars from the various amount of injuries acquired on his journeys. 

But never before had he met anyone as stubborn as his tailing American Aurors. They had been hard pressed to find him, enough so to chase him from France to Greece, and while going to Egypt had been his plan, a few too many close calls with the Aurors catching hold of him when he had decided to enter the desert. Once Cairo had been out of view, Newt had taken the chance to hide his luggage behind a sand dune and had descended into his case without a second thought.

Newt had taken four days to rest inside his case, puttering about the shack he called home, tending to his animals and cleaning the habitats. During his run from the officials, Hugo had somehow gotten into the shack and into the drawers holding some Newt’s few valuables, and while Newt could part with some of the things – he had no need for a broken time turner or pearls from the Black Lake after all – but prying what little funds he had from the Niffler’s pouch had taken most of an entire day. Due to the constant bumping of the case through his chase, one of the occamy had decided to expand to fit the existing area, causing several of the habitats to be destroyed and most of the creatures extremely irritable when Newt had descended to fix the situation. 

It was after four days had Newt been able to restore order, which then had brought his attention to the outside world. His case was small, and in turn was only able to hold a limited amount of creatures. Due to this, Newt knew well of his workshop in London, and had frequented the place several times whenever Theseus had decided to set the Ministry’s Aurors on him. Inside there were dozens, if not over a hundred animals waiting there, all being watched over by his assistant. But if he returned home to his workshop, Newt held no doubt in his mind that the Americans would be only one step behind. 

Newt knew well of Americans and their ban on magical creatures, how they called them ‘beasts’ and how there was a booming black market buying and selling the poor creatures. But it was the States, and Americans had such strange laws, much stranger than any other countries Newt had visited.

Newt enters his home inside the case, the tall shack filled to the brim with a potions and field studies and guides, scrolls with maps and descriptive posters of creature anatomy, workbenches line both sides of the room, a small cot with his old Hufflepuff scarf as a pillow was shoved beneath one of the large work spaces. Tapestries, pots and pans, small aquariums, nests, and tree branches hang from the extended ceiling as Newt starts to search within a large cupboard, opening and closing drawers at random until he comes across a pocket full of random knickknacks. Inside the slot were four portkeys Newt knew well: a small copper bell tied with a yellow ribbon, a broken pocket watch which seemed to always tick except the hands would never budge, an empty glass medicine bottle, and a tattered grey feather.

Newt briefly touches the bell, the hammered metal a promised path to his workshop. But instead grips ahold of the feather and in one fluid motion pulls on his coat and straightens his tie. He ascends up the ladder and opens the hatch to the outside world, the scorching sun determined as the heat pelts down on the Magizoologist. Newt picks up his case and gives his pockets a final pat down, Pickett giving a chirp in confirmation as Newt smiles. He brings the feather to his palm and holds on tight, the sickening feeling of the portkey tugging at his navel as the sensation of being compressed churns at his insides and twists his body. 

When Newt opens his eyes, he’s in front of a door. Unlike the last time he had stood here, the red paint had been peeling and the iron handle had been dented from the time Newt had tried to ride a broom for the first time. Now, the door before him was a neutral beige, the paint fresh and undamaged by time, the mantel a homey cream color and the knob was now sparkling silver. There were now different flowers in the beds on either side of the cobblestone path. Gone were his mother’s lavender and daisies, no ivy crawling up the house’s siding or honeysuckle wrapping around the fence posts. Instead, there were roses contained inside planters and fresh lawn sat in the yard. If Newt hadn’t been the one to set the portkey to his childhood home, then he would have been positive that he stood on the wrong porch. 

Before Newt could overthink it, Newt knocks on the door. 

He hears some thumping in the background, a small _crash_ , a couple few choice swear words, and a scramble for the knob. When the door opens, the first thing Newt sees is bright red hair, and if Newt squints, he can see the semblance between him and his brother. 

Theseus was broad shouldered and taller than Newt by a few inches, his hair a bright red unlike Newt’s, which had a tendency to switch from light brown to red depending on the light. Theseus had bright blue eyes, and wore a clean charcoal three piece suit. Newt had the sudden feeling he was much too under dressed for this meeting. 

“Hey Theseus,” Newt grimaces, giving a small shrug at his brother’s expression. 

For a moment Theseus doesn’t speak, eyes wide as he stares at Newt, scanning over the man’s dirty shoes and scuffed dark grey pants, his thin cream button up, beige tweed vest, and blue coat. Newt was mismatched and bright, the blue of his jacket seeming to offset the entire landscape, full of contained roses and perfect lawn and fresh paint while he stood still, his brother silent as emotions race through his blue eyes. 

“Why are you here?” Theseus greets, his tone neutral, “Did you get tired of running?”

Newt shifts on his feet, his case feeling heavier as he stuffs the feather into his pocket, “Something like that.” Newt concedes. 

Theseus opens the door further, and lets Newt step inside. “Would you like some tea?” 

Newt gives a short nod, and Theseus leads them further inside. Much like the exterior of the home, the interior was different as well. While there were still mismatched rugs lining the hardwood floors and tapestries and bookshelves lining the walls, the furniture had changed drastically. No longer were his father’s comfy squat armchairs or fluffy throw pillows dotting the parlor, or broomsticks resting inside the Muggle umbrella holder. Instead, the furniture was crisp and modern, only a stiff cushion or two to be seen and actual Muggle umbrellas sat in the holder. The hanging pictures on the walls had new frames, and from what Newt could see, the tables had been magically lifted of their scratches and stains and now stood clean and polished. It was as if someone had obliviated his home, scrubbed clean his childhood to make room for something stiff and sensible. 

Newt shudders at the thought, and continues onwards to the kitchen, taking off his coat to rest on the back of a chair as he moves to pull a pair of mugs from the cupboard. Newt moves out of the way of the levitating kettle and watches the steaming water pour over the tea bags. Once full, Newt hands Theseus a mug. 

“How long has it been? Six years?” Theseus prompts, taking a hold of his cup and taking a seat at the island counter. 

Newt leans against the counter, running a finger around the rim of his cup, “…Seven, I believe.”

Theseus nods, but gives Newt a withering look, disappointment dripping off his shoulders like sludge, “Where have you been?” 

“Here and there, I believe I sent you a letter-“ Newt starts only for Theseus to cut him off. 

“Newt, last time you sent a letter through the post was over a year ago. You wrote something about a Lethifold.” Theseus starts, “Do you have any idea how dangerous a Lethifold is?”

Newt shrugs, “Well, yes, but-“

Theseus continues on, “I mean, next you’ll be telling me you’ve been studying Obscurials.” Theseus looked up from his cup, which Newt promptly drops his gaze to the floor. Theseus gives a heavy sigh, placing his tea on the counter, “Newt maybe it’s time to put your skill to better use. Get a job at the Ministry.” 

Newt gives his brother an affronted look, “I have a job, Theseus. I travel to collect information on magical creatures to write a book to raise awareness and how they are not a threat to mankind.”

“Yes, but I mean a real job, brother.” Theseus sighs, pursing his lips as he struggles to find the right words, “Newt, you have to understand – the Scamander family, our family, is a Ministry family.”

Newt can’t help but scoff at the incredulous thought, “A ‘Ministry family’? You can’t seriously believe that, ‘Seus.” 

“Dad was part of the Department of Archives; Mum was part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, I’m head Auror, even Leta has gotten a job in the Ministry. Maybe if you got a job at the Ministry then-"

“–Then what? Become a part of the family? Fit the norm and be confined to a desk till my dying days?” Newt asks, a strange foreign feeling of anger rising in his chest as his childhood fear creeps up his spine, “No N.E.W.T. to my name, no certification, no title – I’ll be stuck with paperwork and reports and never see the light of day except through a window.” 

Theseus pauses for a moment, as he cradles his teacup closer to his chest, “Newt I know you’re scared-“

“Understatement of the year.” Newt mutters, taking a sip of his cooling tea, shoulders rigid and tense. 

“-but maybe some discipline will do you some good. I’m sure you have enough information for your book, take some time to write it. Get a job, publish your novel, settle down, and find someone to spend the rest of your life with. The normal life, brother.” 

Newt sets down his cup with a quiet _thump_ , “The boring life, you mean.” Newt shudders, the fight leaving his shoulders as he turns to face his brother, “Theseus, you couldn’t imagine what I’ve seen on my travels. These creatures, they’re not just animals; they are beings which are surrounded by some of the most terrifying beasts I’ve ever seen: humans. With my book I could rectify problems which affect both humans and these creatures. You tell me to have discipline, yet all I see is the need to do more.” 

Theseus moves to set his empty glass in the sink, “All of that can be done within the Ministry, Newt. Just…just think about it, okay?”

Newt leans against the counter, “…Yeah.”

Theseus gives a sigh, “I’ve got to head off. I need to pick up a few friends of mine from the station.” He starts for the door, pulling on his coat but faltering in his step, “You’ll be here when I get back, right Newt?”

Newt casts his eyes to the ground, shame rising to his cheeks as the thought of running had indeed crossed his mind, “Yeah, I will.”

Newt watches as his brother leaves, the older sending a wave over his shoulder as Newt remains unmoving. He worries his mug of tea, the ceramic handle uneven and the lip just a bit too sharp, but it had been his favorite growing up. Newt stares as Theseus exits the home, the drab grey coat of his suit looking like a clinging raincloud on his brother’s shoulders, smelling like thunder and something dark Newt never wanted to get close to. 

It was a vast difference from when the two had been in school, when Theseus would refuse to wear anything but the colors of Gryffindor for three years straight. School was when things had been simpler, when Newt was still enrolled in Hogwarts and had spent late nights pouring over books, trying to get any kind of information to stick into Theseus’s brain for his O.W.L.s. It was a time when Theseus would only talk about Quidditch and Newt would spend his weekends on the edges of the Forbidden Forest learning of mermaids and bowtruckles. They would spend their holidays at home with their mother and father, and when their family dwindled, it would be the two of them. 

But then things turned messy, and before Newt had realized it, he was taking the train home from Hogwarts for good. Theseus had started seeing Leta the following year, and then by the next the Great War had started. Theseus and his Gryffindor courage had been placed on the front lines, while Newt had been placed in the Dragon Platoon. After the war, Theseus had become a war hero, and while the attention had been focused on Theseus, Newt had run. 

Newt sets his mug in the sink as well, half drunk and cold, plucking his blue coat off the back of his chair and grabbing his suitcase before heading up the creaking wood stairs to the second floor, a mosaic of mismatched rugs spotting the hall as he turns into his old bedroom. 

His bedroom was the same as he remembered, books crammed onto the large bookshelf without any sense of order, stacks of paper residing in the corners while small habitats thrived in magically enclosed floating boxes, some were encased in flowing water and some with overgrowing ivy and blooming flowers. All of the cases were empty of course, most of the animals set free into the wild after his expulsion, while other creatures had joined his case, such as Pickett. 

He sets down his case as he sits on his bed, pulling his coat into his lap as he ponders. Joining the Ministry sounded like a death warrant, of his dreams falling away like a soaked piece of paper. The idea has dread creeping up his spine, his every instinct telling him to keep running. But for how long? Even if the Americans grew tired of Newt, there would always be others. Newt shifts in his seat, the unnerving feeling of a clock ticking down to the wire makes him want to pace, to escape – but Newt wasn’t sure where to, or why for that matter. 

Newt forces himself to lie down, coat still tucked in his arms as he rests against his pillow. He was home, and he was safe, Newt knew this well. And yet, Newt couldn’t stamp down his thoughts as his instincts told him to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the last chapter I said I would add more tags, but only added one new tag. Just to be safe, I'll be adding tags as I go. As far as "historical inaccuracies" go, I will admit I do not know much about WWI, but I will try my best. 
> 
> Fun fact: this fic was supposed to be only four chapters long! That being said, I will be trying to update more frequently this week since I aim to have this fic finished by the end of June! As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> Next Update: March 30th (or sooner)


	10. Shattered Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leta gives Graves and Tina some insight on Newt. Tina starts to question their mission and Graves tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tina is such a badass, wow, take no shit sweetie

Getting into contact with Theseus had easily saved Graves the issue of asking the Ministry for the location of their head Auror’s home, and had saved his lightening wallet the cost of catching another train to the outskirts of London. Thankfully, Theseus had promised to pick up Graves and Tina from the station.

The walk up the cobblestone path was sickening to Graves, the aura of domesticity the home seemed to waft off of the house causing his stomach to twist as a white picket fence fenced in a perfectly maintained lawn as planters of roses sprung up from under the windowsills. There was not a fleck of wear or tear on the home, as if time had been charmed to stop on the Scamander property. It was hard to imagine that the man he had been chasing had been born in such a pristine house. 

“Home!” Theseus calls out he enters the abode and lets Tina and Graves enter behind him.

The interior was far different than the Graves Manor, where his childhood home was dark and cold; the Scamander household was warm and forgiving in comparison. Along the walls were small dents and scratches, evidence from childhood remaining despite the newly painted plaster. There was a large grandfather clock with etchings of creeping vines and blooming flowers and woven rugs covering the dark hardwood floor. 

Theseus leads the Americans towards the kitchen, large windows opening up the view to the outside, and Graves can imagine if the sun had not set hours ago, there would be light softly dappling through the canopy of leaves from the trees outside. 

“Leta should be home soon,” Theseus informs them, “Newt got here this afternoon, if you would like to talk to him.” 

Before Graves can reply, there is a sound of bare feet hitting the wooden stairs. Graves freezes at the sound, thoughts racing at how Graves should introduce himself? If Newt does listen, what can Graves do to convince him to take the job? Was Graves dressed right for this encounter?

“Theseus, I-“ Newt Scamander comes around the corner, entering the kitchen with a book in hand when blue eyes settle upon the group. Graves could see the paling of the man’s cheeks as his eyes darts from Auror to Auror, until finally settling on his brother, a hollowed look of betrayal staining his features as the book fell from his fingers. “W-why…?”

Theseus seems to start at the look on Newt’s face, the elder drawing tense as Newt stumbles back, “Newt, I can explain-“

Graves can see Newt tense, eyes growing wide in rising fear. He watches in almost slow motion as a wand falls from Newt’s sleeve and as Tina raises her wand to Newt’s chest, watching with growing horror as a bright light fills the room.

It was a flash of white, and something exploding from the Magizoologist’s sleeve, a shrill screech, a blur of blue and a _pop_. One moment, and everything was close at hand, Newt Scamander in the same room as them, case nowhere in sight, the man in familiar territory and the next Tina was jumping the gun and trying to stop the elusive man – which instead of being on the ground in a body binding hex, Scamander was gone.

Minutes later, the front door opens and Graves lunges to his feet, the hope soaring through his chest quickly crushed as the click of heels sound against the hardwood.

“Theseus?” A woman’s voice calls out. 

Theseus gives a short answer and the woman strides into the kitchen on sharp heels, her short curling dark hair framing her cheeks as she sways into the room. Theseus melts in his spot at the sight of the woman, a grin spreading across his cheeks as he gives her a quick peck on the cheek. He quickly fills her in about Newt, and in turn she gives the elder Scamander a report on how the Ministry is fairing without his presence for the day. Once done, Graves steps aside as Theseus moves past him, wand at the ready as he starts to prepare dinner.

“Shall we move to the dining area?” The woman asks, the look in her eyes giving no room for argument, and they move to the adjoining room. Taking a seat at the table, the woman extends a manicured hand towards Graves, “My name is Leta Lestrange.”

Graves nods and takes her hand, “Pleasure to meet you. My name is Percival Graves.”

Instead of making comment or extending a hand to Tina, Leta simply smiles. She casts a look into the kitchen, her smile flickering for just a moment before turning back to Graves and Tina. 

“You must forgive him,” Leta says, her purring voice reminding Graves of a lioness, “Newt has never been one to trust others.”

“And why is that?” Graves ponders, watching the small glimmer in the woman’s eye as she gives a polite smile. 

Graves remembers the woman’s name stamped onto Newt’s file multiple times, all of which in response to the younger male’s expulsion of Hogwarts. Tied in with the house placement of Newt, the house known most for its undying loyalty, trust would be a given, or in some cases at least hard earned.

Before Leta can respond, Theseus walks into the dining room and sets dinner on the table, a steaming dish of shepard’s pie staring back at him as they eat while Graves and Theseus make well-mannered small talk as Tina and Leta stay quiet. Besides him, Tina never shifts; her shoulders tense and eyes narrow slits as she takes stock of the room around her, her gaze flicking back to the woman sitting across from her. Graves continues on with his conversation, something probably well-meaning and intriguing about the Ministry, but keeps half an eye on Leta as well. 

Graves wracks his mind for any information he could remember about the woman. She attended Hogwarts the same year as Newt, and was mentioned to be friends of the sort. She had been involved in the younger Scamander’s expulsion, and not long after had started showing interest in Theseus. After the Great War, the elder and Leta had started to date seriously. Newt had never returned. 

“Mr. Graves, if I may be so bold,” Leta says, looking up to Graves through her eyelashes as her words bring Graves from his thoughts, “it has come to my attention that you seek Newt. However, it is with great condolences that I must inform you that if Newt does not want to be found, then you will fail to find him.”

Tina lifts a sculpted brow, “You seem awfully sure of that information, Ms. Lestrange.”

“Newt and I were…acquaintances back in school. For fun he would converse with mermaids and trek into the Forbidden Forest to befriend acromantulas. Despite his…talents, Newt always had a hard time fitting in – and we all know how cruel children can be.” Leta supplies, “Newt quickly found his knack for ‘disappearing’, so much so that it often sent the professors into a tizzy searching for him. Only one professor could find him – and Theseus of course. But finding Newt was often times up to the decision of Lady Luck.” Leta states off hand, as if discussing the next day’s weather. 

“In your opinion,” Graves prompts as the tone of Leta’s voice makes the hairs on his arms stand on end, “do you think it is possible to find Newt?” 

“At this point – not at all. Under no circumstances would Newt return home out of free will. Theseus has tried almost every trick in the book to get Newt home, if even for a single dinner.” Leta states calmly, pushing a chunk of potato around the rim of her plate with her fork as if what she was saying had no matter to the fate of Graves’s world, “Think of Newt like one of his beasts, once cornered, Newt will do one of two things: either he will fight back like how he did in the kitchen, or he will submit and accept the consequences of his actions.”

Her tone makes Graves’s hand tighten under the table, as again the block letters of Leta Lestrange’s name comes to his mind, the vague documentation of Newt’s expulsion-  
Leta looks up from her plate, eyes knowing as she gives a coy smile from her seat across the table, bringing her goblet of wine to her lips. 

A wave of discomfort comes over Graves; the urge to defend Newt and pry into the Scamanders’ lives rears its head as he wants to shake the woman for information. But, like Graves, the woman had an impressive title following her name. Instead, he stands from his seat, and looks to his hosts, and gives a tight smile to Theseus’s expression of shock. 

“Thank you for hospitality, but we have a train to catch. Thank you Theseus, Ms. Lestrange.”

Graves nods to the both of them, and sees himself to the door without waiting for either of their hosts to show them out. He’ll have to remember to write to the elder Scamander and thank him properly. He exits out the front door, Tina following close behind as he closes the door behind her. He sets out down the path and down the road, the further he gets from the polished house the better he feels. 

“Do we actually have a train to catch?” Tina asks her voice small in the quiet of the night. 

“No.” Graves answers simply, the silence seeming to quell his voice as well. 

“Oh.” Tina purses her lips as she walks besides him. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” Graves says, trying to sound optimistic as his mind reels for some sort of a plan. 

He feels a bit lost, especially after being told that his adventure to find Newt had ended. Part of him wants to keep searching, but with only fourteen days left until his deadline, there was little chance Graves would be able to complete his task. 

“I don’t understand this.”

Tina stops in her tracks, standing by the side of the country road, the thin layer of mud clinging to her once polished shoes a testament to her travels. Her coat now has a tear in the seam of her sleeve, her clean blouse dirtied and stained from train hopping and sleeping in train booths and the cargo holds of ships. Tina stands in the shadow of the moonlight, a bright crescent hanging by a string of stars in the sky. She shakes, her shoulders rattling as her jaw tightens. She doesn’t cast her gaze to the ground, not like how she would before their journey. In New York there was a line that was never crossed, and Tina knew her place in the team. But here on the side of the road in a foreign country, she glares with a fiery glint in her eyes. 

“What do you mean?” Graves asks calmly, hands still in his coat pockets as he tries to keep a disinterested composure. 

“This. All of this!” Tina bursts. It’s like a dam has been released as she waves her arms gesturing to everything around them, “Why all of this?! Why is MACUSA building another department? Why does Picquery suddenly send us on a mission outside of our borders? Why send us? Hell, why are we the ones that have to find the damn Scamander? Why do we have a deadline? Why our department? Why couldn’t Hudson do this? She’s your second in command, right? If I hadn’t forced my way onto this mission, you would have done this alone. Why were you about to do this alone? Do you trust your department that little, Graves? Why does this matter so much to you Graves?! _Why does any of this matter?!_ ”

Graves watches the ranting woman, her anger justified as he had dragged her across the world. He had never told his department why this was so important to him, that if they failed by the deadline then he would no longer have a job. Graves knew he was not the most loved in the department, or one of the more lax directors in MACUSA. Graves was a strict man who favored rules and regulations, and was sure that his department would hold no qualms over his departure. 

“Tina,” Graves pauses, guilt building in his chest as he makes his choice, “under my jurisdiction, our department has taken too long to corral and contain the magical creatures being released, bought, and sold in New York,” Graves spoke, his voice wooden and dull like reading from a report. “Because of this, our community becomes closer and closer to being exposed to No-Maj kind. The President aims to solve this problem by opening a new department to specialize in these types of cases, and to help with relocation efforts. However, due to my standing of being the President’s right hand, it is my job to staff and employ the new department, as well of to find someone fit for the title of director. The stakes Picquery has stated are that if I do not produce the department, three staff members, a director, and close all cases regarding magical creatures, then I will lose my standing as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Director of Magical Security, Senior Auror, and career at MACUSA.” 

Tina seems to still for a moment, her shoulders dropping for a second as she stares at Graves in shock, a flash of hurt crosses her features before he rage appears once more. 

“So what? This is huge, Graves, and you decided to lie to me? You thought you could lie to the entire department and no one would find out? You thought you could play us like a fool and if you succeeded then no harm done? What would have happened?! What was to happen if we woke up one day and you were _gone_? What were we supposed to do?” 

Tina trembles, fire in her stance as she reaches into her pocket, pulling the portkey from its depths. Graves thinks for a harrowing moment that she will activate the vase, to send herself home without him. He thinks he will be left in a country not of his own without a hope to get home in a timely manner, and yet he does not think he would blame the woman. Instead Tina takes the ornate portkey and raises it over her head, the moonlight making the pale porcelain glow in like a beacon. 

Graves’s eyes widen in realization and rushes to pull his hands from his pockets, fingers catching on the hem in his haste as he makes the futile attempt to stop Tina, as she draws back in rage, her nails digging into the ceramic as she smashes the portkey into the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Notes: Tina accidentally breaks the portkey  
> My Writing: Tina just fukin yeets that thing
> 
> Next update: March 31st


	11. I am not Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt visits a friend, and decides to face his fears.

When he ran from the house; Newt had only grabbed his case and fled. He had left his coat on the hanger and his shoes by the door. When the Swooping Evil had burst from his sleeve, Newt had acted blindly. He still wasn’t sure what he had done to anger the Americans, but the fact they had found his childhood home, the one place he could return to, his last resort, made his stomach churn and the ground disappear beneath his feet. For the first time since the beginnings of his travels, a sense of being lost overcame him. 

Returning to his workshop in London was out of the question, even if only to grab a pair of shoes. If the Americans could find his home, then what was there to protect his animals? He had been cornered, his own brother leading the Americans to him. 

Newt shakes his head, trying to dislodge the clinging negative thoughts making a home in the back of his mind. His muscles complain with each step, exhaustion seeming to have seeped into his bones during his first escape from the Aurors and while he had taken four days to reside within his suitcase, very little relaxation had been sought as Newt had spent his days jumping from habitat to habitat. The stress of the past week was starting to draw down on his shoulders, paranoia making the shadows of the trees seem longer, larger, and a tiny bit more human. Maybe Elric Lovegood was right about Nargles. 

Newt was feeling close to the breaking point, moving on pure instinct as he trudges through the forest on the cusp of his family’s property. He casts a look about, setting his case down on a tree stump before descending into his shed, down the rickety ladder and into the cluttered workspace as he goes directly to the drawer holding his portkeys. He deposits the feather, nimble fingers dragging over the copper bell but grasping a hold of the golden pocket watch, the clock hands never moving as the mechanics ticked away. 

Dougal sits on the counter of his workbench, cocking his head to the side as Newt stands to his full height, closing the drawer his hip. 

“Don’t give me that look, I sort of know what I’m doing,” Newt smiles, before climbing back up the ladder to the outside world. 

He closes his case with a resounding click. There’s voices floating on the wind, too far for Newt to make out any specific words, but Newt ignores it to collect his case and stands in the dirt, the cooling earth squishing between his toes as a soft warm wind curls around his shoulders, ruffling his hair as the voice gets louder, anger seeping into the air as Newt holds the watch in his hand, the portkey warm in his palm. 

An ear-piercing shatter cuts through the wind like a knife, Newt jolting at the sound just as the portkey pulls him through space, the discomforting twist churning his stomach until dirt changes to tile, tall darkened trees to cold stone, and the tree stump turns to a carved marble fireplace with a simmering flame. The wind cuts off and is replaced with floating warmth as a familiar figure stands before him. 

“Where are your shoes, my boy?” Dumbledore greets; the man’s gaze immediately seeing Newt’s bare feet. 

“Lost ‘em.” Newt shrugs, tension spreading in his chest like a virus, “I’m quite a bit lost these days actually.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore asks, taking his wand out and summoning a warm armchair to rest in front of his desk for Newt to sit, “What makes you say that?”

Newt shifts softly, the pads of his feet shuffling on the cold tile, “Just a few things here and there – small things. Makes me doubt, is all.”

Dumbledore walks across his office to sit behind his desk in a plush arm chair, a tapestry of red and gold hanging on the wall behind him as he moves a multitude of papers from his desk, promptly placing the paperwork into a drawer to clear the space in front of him. 

“I must say Mr. Scamander, during your stay here at Hogwarts you were always a strange one. No matter how many times you were caught or forbidden, you always went to the forest or the lake without hesitation.” Dumbledore states, Newt giving a bashful nod, “No sense of self-preservation. Nearly gave the headmaster a heart attack the first time you had chosen to take a swim in the Black Lake.”

Newt coughs as he takes a seat, “I wasn’t that bad. I had done my research.” 

Dumbledore lifts a brow, “Not that bad you say? One doesn’t swim with mermaids or make star charts with centaurs on the weekends, Scamander. Most would call that behavior ‘reckless’…”

Newt gives a shrug, “I mean-“

“…However, I would call it ‘brave’. It takes courage to do things no one else would dream of, and it takes bravery to stand up for what you think is right.”

“My brother is the brave one in family, not me.” Newt gives, bowing his head to the ground. 

“Your brother was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he? But bravery isn’t the only trait you brother has is it? Just like how you were once a Hufflepuff, and with that carry the trait of loyalty. It doesn’t mean you are not also brave, or smart, or cunning. It just means that your loyalty outweighs your other traits. Theseus is brave, but it doesn’t mean he is not also loyal to his family.” Dumbledore states, conjuring a steaming cup of tea in a floral china tea cup and saucer. 

“My _brother_ led the Americans to my home, after they had chased me across Europe for no rhyme or reason. The one place I thought I wouldn’t be found, the place I thought I would have asylum and yet, there, in my bloody kitchen, were the Americans only hours after my arrival. What else was I supposed to do?” Newt says, fidgeting with the hem of his vest. 

Dumbledore gives Newt a look before he takes a sip of his tea, “Go speak with them, Newton. If you don’t like what you hear, then simply apparate away. You have escaped them before, have you not? But without knowing _why_ they have put forward the extraneous effort to locate you, and then can you truly judge them or your brother for their actions? What are you truly afraid of? Closure?”

“Freedom,” Newt mutters, “Theseus wants me to get a job at the Ministry, to be locked away behind a desk until I am buried in a grave of paperwork. I…am afraid the Americans will succeed in finding me, and they’ll take my creatures – take away my freedom.”

“And how do you know that is their goal?” The Head of Gryffindor asks patiently.

“I don’t,” Newt concedes, eyes widening as he takes to his feet, picking his case up from the ground as he starts for the door. 

“Mr. Scamander, where are you going?” Dumbledore asks, taking a stand from his seat at Newt’s sudden move for departure.

“To find my Gryffindor bravery.” Newt responds as the door slams shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt is now off chasing the Americans! I'm a bit on the fence about writing a chapter purely in Tina's perspective, so that might be part of the next chapter. Not exactly sure just yet. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next Update: April 13th


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